


Sky, Blue

by Evilsnowswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Flight Attendant Lacey, Flight Attendants, Frequent Flyer Gold, Rumbelle Christmas in July 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilsnowswan/pseuds/Evilsnowswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>[RCIJ 2016 Gift for RosexKnight]</b>
</p><p><b>Summary</b>: Frequent Flyer!Gold meets Flight Attendant!Lacey</p><p><b>Prompt</b>: Long Distance Meeting Apples Cafe</p><p>- Nominated for Best Rumbelle Christmas in July in The Espenson Awards 2017 -</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RosexKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosexKnight/gifts).



August 15th, a regular Monday, rent day.

The one thing Mr Gold liked about the quiet coastal town of Storybrooke, Maine was how it never changed in his absence. Last year he spent 322 days on the road, which meant he had to spend 43 miserable days at home - 12 of them rent days - but whenever he returned to the Pink House on the hill, things still were exactly the same as he had left them. He liked that, the predictability of the mundane, even if it always made him inexplicably and unbearably restless after only a few days. Perhaps it was the tall, cool walls and high ceilings, the ghosts of a legacy gone terribly wrong, seeping through the cracks with the blowing spray and salt from the cliffs, that kept chasing him away. Perhaps he just didn’t like sitting around and twiddling his thumbs.

Rodor Gold had no friends in town, as small town folk was narrow-minded and wary of what they did not understand. Little did people know that he wasn’t the unknown they feared, but simply the man chasing it. Ever since he could remember he had been on the move, looking constantly for something he couldn’t quite grasp, urged on by the vague feeling that there was something vital missing from his life, something he desperately needed to retrieve or replace. He never bothered with putting a name to the feeling these days, not anymore, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that it had to have something to do with his mother's untimely passing, one way or another. With property and wealth to the family name, he had been lucky enough to never want for anything, anything that could be bought by name or gold at least, and he had grown up to live a comfortable life indeed, enjoying his creature comforts within reason. But the strange yearning never fully went away, so he did instead. Frequently.

Gold knew that his tenants thought him odd, but he didn’t care. The way he lived, he wasn’t isolated, he was surrounded - and he didn’t expect any of them to understand that. When he was home, he kept mostly to himself, his reading and planning only interrupted by staff asking how he’d like to take today’s tea, where he’d wish the young rose bushes to be planted, or if he required the tailor to be called in to set to work on a new suit and matching neckwear. He already owned more suits than he could have worn in a lifetime, but he grew bored of cloth, pattern and style easily and had found that the tailor was one of the few people in town whose presence and company he almost enjoyed, so he saw no harm in keeping the man in business.

Gold had been home for a week when rent day rolled around that particular August. The morning already unpleasantly heavy and humid, he cursed the sun that was ascending the clear, blue sky at a lazy pace as he made his descent into town for the usual rounds to collect what was due. He believed the day to become an unpleasantly hot, but otherwise perfectly ordinary Monday - a hypothesis proven wrong when he, just about to enter Granny’s diner, was hit by the door as it blew open from the other side instead. Thrown back by the force of the blast, Gold stumbled backwards, narrowly escaping a fall down the steps and the breaking of his neck as whatever callow youth responsible for his near-demise shot out an arm and caught him by his own, thereby preventing ugly bloodshed on the pavement.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you! Are you alr--- _you!_ ”

Before he could do anything but open his mouth in anger and confusion, the hand on his arm had gone and he’d been whipped across the face by a curtain of mahogany hair as the woman who had stormed out of the diner pushed past him to leave without another word. Livid, he spun on his heels to yell after her, but she was already jogging down the street, twisting her hair into a ponytail as she went, and he didn’t want to cause a scene. Or at least he didn’t want the whole town to watch while he did. He briefly contemplated running after her to call her out on her poor manners, but for one thing, he wasn’t a very good runner. And for another, he didn’t think she’d care.

Red heat rising to his neck and face, Gold watched her go, her figure growing smaller and smaller in the distance, and with every passing second he felt himself grow more furious - with her, her appalling conduct and choice in apparel, and with himself for letting such rudeness slide like that. What kind of behavior was that? Who did such a thing, nearly kill another person before it was even noon, and then didn’t have the decency to apologize for it? Well, apparently the same kind of person who thought hot summery temperatures an excellent excuse to go and parade around town like a tart and practically naked, wearing a shirt that left nothing up to anyone’s imagination, exposing her from her midriff to her bellybutton, the pale skin visible right down to the hip bones hugged snugly by a pair of low-cut jeans, which were so scandalously short they barely covered her jiggling behind at all. And who in the word exercised in midday heat and with beach shoes on their feet, Gold wondered as he entered the diner, greeted Granny with a curt nod and a brisk “Good morning,” and asked for “the usual,” before he slid into his regular booth at his regular table and snatched up the menu, his eyes burning holes into the laminated paper. A fool, that’s who. A frivolous, ignorant fool without a spark of decency in her scantily clad body.

He wasn’t looking at the choices in front of him, he didn’t have to. Granny Lucas never changed the menu and he always ordered the same breakfast: A fry up consisting of a simple pork sausage, some back bacon, baked beans and grilled tomatoes, two slices of fried bread, mushrooms, and two eggs - unscrambled, sunny side up, the yolk still runny in the middle. And Granny knew to serve it with a hot strong cup of tea and a few pieces of extra toast, and to put vinegary, brown HP sauce, tomato sauce and some nice marmalade on the table as well. Each time, he would ask her to swap the bacon and sausage for a big slab of fried haggis, which she then flat out refused to do, and even if he knew the answer before asking the question, he kept asking it anyway and without fail, because it was just what they did and he felt oddly pleased by her never-changing answer and the slightly appalled look that came with it.

Today he hadn’t asked. He had simply forgot, missed a couple of steps in their morning dance, and it was entirely _her_ fault. She had disturbed his routine together with his peace of mind and ruined his perfectly good breakfast in the process.

As Ruby wordlessly placed the condiments, a bread basket and his tea on the table and then returned with his steaming plate a moment later, Gold made a mental note to thank the stranger, should he have the misfortune of running into her again. It was highly unlikely, he thought, cutting up his sausage with a touch more vigor than strictly necessary. Strangers never came to Storybrooke and they never stayed, so she would be well gone and halfway back to wherever she came from by the time he finished his plate.


	2. Chapter 2

He did not see her again that day.

On Tuesday, after precisely seven hours and fifteen minutes of sleep, Gold woke up feeling calm and refreshed, struggling to recall why he had been in such a sour mood the previous evening. It had been rent day, he liked rent days, and the books confirmed that he had gotten paid in full - no late payments, no installments, no pleas for extensions. Normally, he would have proceeded taking his breakfast at home, at the long table in the dining room, reading the paper and enjoying the peace and quiet of an early morning, but as he opened the window to air out the bedroom, he was greeted by a loud flutey whistle, with a buzzy, bold quality, a familiar sound coming from high up in the large, leafy apple tree just outside his window, and he smiled at the Baltimore oriole that was heralding the arrival of Tuesday morning with its melodic song and colorful plumage, suddenly seized by a desire to take a lengthy stroll through his apple orchard immediately. Leaving the window wide open, Gold shrugged into his coat, stopped in the hall to give his shoes a quick polish and grab his black cane from the stand, and then headed out the backdoor through the kitchens.

Walking was good for him, the doctor had said, and he enjoyed doing it. As much as he liked being on the road, he much preferred fresh, apple-scented air to the recycled kind, the sun to artificial lighting, and freshly pressed juice to the undignified digital juice dispensers. Unlimited leg-space was always a plus of travel by foot rather than airplane as well, he thought, taking long strides amidst the many rows of apple trees, the green canopy buzzing and humming with life and birdsong and filling his heart with joy.

Joy, however, was a momentary, fleeting emotion in Rodor Gold’s life, a visitor stopping by on a fly visit only, and sure enough, it left him almost as soon as it had arrived on his doorstep to be replaced by unmistakable pangs of what had to be the hungriest he had felt in weeks. A surprised hand flying to his belly, Gold stopped. Then he plucked a crisp apple from the nearest branch. Perhaps it was the unexpected hunger, he mused, that had him romanticize the simple fruit, but it was positively ambrosial and left him craving more. Hesitating, he looked up and down the long row of trees, unsure for a moment where to go next.

He didn’t much fancy Martha’s cooking, though his housekeeper did make a mean omelet and prepared the most divine cup of tea, so after a left turn, some fifteen minutes of being flanked by trees on either side and a shortcut later, his steps directed him down the hill rather than back to his own kitchens.

He didn’t eat breakfast at Granny’s every day, that was a treat he usually reserved for rent days only, but the thought of a hot plate of decent fry up made his stomach rumble and his mouth water, and Gold decided that he could bend the rules just a little bit to make them stretch and expand to include the day after rent day as well.

The moment he entered the diner and saw that his usual table was, however, already taken, he knew that his gut feeling was no trustworthy adviser and he better not heed its counsel again in the future. His stomach convulsed and churned, but it was no longer from hunger. Within seconds, he was filled to the brim with boiling indignation and a silent kind of white-hot rage that made his skin prickle.

There she was again, sitting at _his_ table, eating _his_ stir fry, drinking _his_ tea, and - worst of all - she appeared to have emptied the entire bottle of tomato ketchup onto her plate, culinary savage that she was, because all he saw was red.

Today he wouldn’t let it go. Today he would say something.

Gold took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and, ignoring the quizzical looks from the Tuesday morning crowd, walked right up to her. “Excuse me, Miss, I’m awfully sorry to bother you, and I am sure you were not aware of this at all, but you are sitting at _my_ table,” he informed her calmly, a strange sense of relief flooding his body as his words were met with a not unfriendly smile. Perhaps he had judged her too harshly the previous day. Perhaps their encounter had merely been an unfortunate accident. She had put down her knife and fork and was smiling and nodding politely, tilting her head in a way that told him he had been heard and understood, and that she was contemplating his words. Surely she was about to do the reasonable thing and gather her things any moment now.

Only she didn’t.

When she spoke Gold had to do a double take, his eyes quickly darting to her face to check, but her friendly expression hadn’t changed in the slightest, which made the cold tone all the more confusing. “Um, first of all, no you’re not. And second, no, I didn’t know, but quite frankly, I can’t say that I care very much now that I do.”

Her words washed over him like an icy current, chilling his blood before making it boil all over again, and he started to open his mouth to retort, feeling his chest inflate like a hot air balloon, but his brain squawked and groped around on the linoleum floor for the scattered words like a fool, and then it was too late. He settled on staring at her instead. With as much contempt as he could possibly muster. It only made her laugh. A nasty nasal sound.

“You actually expect me to give up this table and move, don’t you?” She raised a perfect brow at him and he couldn’t help but notice how very blue her eyes were. A patch of cloudless sky, lakes, oceans. He looked at the blue, turbulent and foaming, and instantly thought of beaches and waves. A hint of sea breeze rode her vowels in a wetsuit and board shorts, twangy and playful, cutting most her words short. _Australia_. Kangaroos, koalas and poisonous creatures, big and small - and deadly if so much as looked at wrong. And one was sitting before him, fighting him tooth and nail over the best spot at the waterhole. 

“That would be most appreciated, yes,” he said, standing his ground. Had she asked nicely, he might have graciously allowed the deviation from routine and order, but foreigner or not, this _was_ his town, not just figuratively speaking, and his table she was blocking, and she better learned how things worked around here quickly or would find herself swallowed by much bigger and meaner beasts than herself.

“Oh my god, you _are_ being serious about this!” She exclaimed, her eyes pulling an aerial. “Look here, Mister -”

“Gold. Name is Mr Gold, Miss.” He held out a formal hand, determined to show her how civilized people on this side of the pond behaved, but she didn’t take it. To his surprise, she blushed and dropped her gaze, her cheeks round and lush like apples in autumn.

“I ---” she began, but caught herself quickly, shook her head and looked up at him steadily. He lowered his hand. “Um, well then, _Mr Gold_ , I don’t know what it is with you small town people - apparently you all flavour your porridge with a pinch of total insanity here - but, how do I best put this?” She pretended to ponder her words for a beat, then her eyes locked on his. “--- _No_. The answer is no.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?! Do you even know who you’re talking to, Miss ---?” He struggled to keep his voice calm and level. He had introduced himself, but she hadn’t reciprocated, which gave her the upper hand and made him the underdog in the game. Names were powerful like that.

“I was under the impression that I was talking to a Mister Gold? Unless you’ve given me a fake name, which, come to think of it, has happened before and more times than you’d believe, but either way, I couldn’t care less what your name was and I wouldn’t vacate this booth even if you were the Prime Minister,” she said firmly, staring him down until he looked away. “I’d scoot over for the Queen, Queen of England that is, because she’s, well, an old lady and darling as, but you, Mister Gold, are just --- _old_. And mean. And my food is getting cold. So, if you’ll excuse me.” She picked up her fork and knife and pointedly turned her torso away from him to signal dismissal and the end of the conversation.

Well, if she insisted on offending common decency, he would pay her back in kind. Gold widened his stance a little, planting his feet firmly on the ground, and folded his hands over the cane handle. He didn’t say another word, but she soon realized their conversation was far from over, the pink in her cheeks and temples and the red blotches blooming above the daringly low-cut neckline of her summer dress betraying her nerves and embarrassment as he continued to watch her, scrutinizing her every move and feature keenly, determined to make her writhe with discomfort under his stern and prying gaze.

She drew up her shoulders, her eyes stubbornly glued to the bites of egg and sausage on her fork, but he could see the the heat travel and spread. His mouth twitched and her leg bounced, and finally, after another ten minutes or so, the cutlery clattered to her plate noisily, before the wave of anger broke the banks and exploded out of her in a gasp.

“Seriously?!” She dabbed her napkin to the corners of her mouth like a bushcraft knife. “Okay, let me give this to you straight: Unless you can produce a seating plan of this diner that clearly states that this is _your_ table, and yours _specifically_ , I am not going anywhere until I’m done with my breakfast. And, fair warning, I might fancy a second cuppa or some dessert later - pretty sure of it, actually - so, you see, it might be a while.” She crossed her arms, looking daggers at him.

Gold smirked. So she didn’t like the taste of her own medicine. “Suits me just fine, Miss.” He gestured to her plate. “By all means, enjoy your full English. I am a patient man.”

She gawked at him, then burst out laughing like a drain, taking them both by surprise. “Well played, Mr Gold. Touché,” she said, grinning, and tipped her imaginary broad-brimmed straw hat to him. “Ya know, you’re free to join me, seat opposite isn’t taken. I’m pretty sure this -” she lightly patted the table top-“can hold another plate of whatever it is you’re having, and that way we both get to enjoy our breakfast in peace at this lovely table that’s apparently the place to be on this fine Tuesday morning. What do you say, Mister Gold?”

Gold balked at the hopeful look on her face. The wind had changed, the tempest passed, and the wild oceans turned into calm lakes that caught the sunlight, their surface glistening most invitingly. He considered her for a moment, still deciphering her chipper tone to determine if her offer was genuine, but, ultimately, had to answer his own question in the negative. She had simply switched tactics on him, that was all, her honeyed words caramelizing on her split tongue to lay out a sweet trap and soften him up.

He cleared his throat. “Well, actually ---”

Her face fell and his heart clenched. And he’d almost sat down then, if only from shock and bewilderment, but managed to snap out of it at the very last moment, shaking whatever spell she had put on him like a dog shaking off water after a walk in the rain. A twitching hand covering his heart, Gold grimaced, wondering what store it was that employed such a crude person. Probably a chain that didn’t care, or a small tin can in the middle of nowhere that didn’t get to care. How dare she use her retail voice on him, he thought, the fire returning to his belly and the flames licking up into his chest cavity. Like he would ever break bread with someone like her, and after she had insulted him so!

“ _No. The answer is no_ ,” he echoed. “Good day to you, Miss.”

And with that he turned and left, making his way out the door, back through town, up the hill and into his home.


	3. Chapter 3

Gold spent the afternoon holed up in his study. The grand oak-paneled room was less of an office and more of a library and refuge, and it was by far Gold’s favorite room in the house. Leather bound books from all over the world and written in a variety of languages were neatly arranged on the many shelves and, in one corner there was a small wooden coffee table flanked by two comfortable burgundy armchairs. Pride of place in the room went to a large writing desk, which sat squarely at the end of the room, dominating the entire space and filling it with a soft earthy scent. Behind the desk was what looked a modest chair, but was made from exquisite, soft leather, and on the smooth, polished desk sat a large illuminated world globe on a stand, vintage and obscenely valuable.

Once upon a time, it had been sculpted and hand-painted by an Italian artist in Rome, so it was fairly outdated, but it had been in his family for centuries, being passed down the direct line only, and, in more recent history, had changed hands from his maternal great grandfather to his only son, who in turn had given it to his eldest daughter Evanna Gold (neé Ruadh) on her 18th birthday. His mother, the strong and beautiful Evita, had presented her little Rodor with a set of the old world globe and another, smaller, but equally magnificent celestial globe with a planetarium clock, the sphere made of clear crystal, the base of gold, and the meridian circle of Purple Heart, a rare heartwood native to the tropical rain-forests of South America, which, when cut, quickly turned from dark brown to a rich, beautiful purple color.

Ever since that night, the night he had turned five years old, Rodor had been fascinated with the earth and the sky in equal parts, a deep, insatiable desire born in his little heart to see and explore it all. That night his mother had passed the torch to her son and kindled the spark, hoping to nurture it to a passionate flame not unlike her own over the years to come. Rodor remembered her gentle touch as she had guided his small hands over fast-spinning land, sea, sky and star, and filled his ears with the most wonderful, exotic tales of great places, people and adventures, his bright head with endless questions, and his racing heart with more love than it could possibly have held in that very moment. Evita Gold had been fire, had been flame, and when the sun rose again in the East all that was left was two globes, cold ashes and lost, little Rodor, and life in the Pink House on the hill had never been the same again.

With a sigh, Gold walked the old globe with two fingers, dragging his mind away from the past and back into the present. Normally, the study with its many books and maps only furthered his planning frenzy and he would spend hours on end in here, researching places to go and sights to visit and languages to learn. Sometimes, seized by a sudden, inexplicable interest for a most remote spot in some far-off corner of the world during the wee hours of the morning, he would stumble out of bed to hit the books and, by the time his staff began its day, he would inform them of his imminent departure to Fiji, the Cusco Region, Urubamba Province, Machupicchu District, Peru or the picturesque village of Skarsvåg, the northernmost fishing village in the world, the closest village to the North Cape, situated next to the Barents Sea. Martha would shake her head, laugh good-naturedly and pack him an opulent lunch and Dove would take him to the airport as soon as he rang off with the airline, his credit card still glowing red-hot in his back pocket.

He would get on the plane and rush wherever it was that he felt had been calling to him, and sometimes the urge to get there as fast as possible would have passed before the aircraft even touched down and sometimes not, and either way Gold would come, see and conquer, before boarding yet another plane to chase after the ever-changing winds at full pelt, looking for god-knew-what god-knew-where, the deep dissatisfaction at not being able to find anything anywhere ever growing in his heart and burning through tissue and muscle, slowly charring the soft, pink flesh and turning it into, what he was certain, resembled a lump of coal by now.

The soft breeze wafting in from the open window wasn’t whispering to him today, and for the first time in forever, he didn’t feel any of the restless energy that propelled him onwards like a steam engine. Instead he felt irritated, strangely sad and very, very tired, and finally decided to call it a day shortly after dinner. No sooner had his throbbing head hit the memory foam pillow than death’s brother took him by the hand to lead him through the land of forgotten dreams, which, true to the name, he never remembered come morning light.     

======

Wherever he went, whatever he did the following days, there she was, materializing out of thin air as if it was her sole purpose in life to try and get a rise out of him. Or so Gold believed until he’d noticed that she too had taken to fleeing the scene on the spot on each occasion they met, beating him to a swift exit a couple of times, and he began to wonder if perhaps he had offended her just as much as she had him. Only, why didn’t she leave then? Leave to return to wherever her own life had to be waiting for her?

Days stretched into weeks and still, there she was. And so was he.

Technically owning the place, he had inquired and found out that the stranger had rented a room at Granny’s Bed & Breakfast, didn’t seem to have any friends or family ties in the area and was merely here on vacation. His curiosity piqued, he wanted to ask her how come a young Aussie lass like herself chose to spend her vacation in a sleepy town like Storybrooke, Maine for no apparent reason, and when she could have picked anywhere else in the world instead, but he didn’t feel his questions would be welcome and so he did not engage with her again - not even on those occasions neither of them bolted for the hills on sight.

Another week passed and he could no longer tell if it was her physical presence in town or her resolute silence that irked and irritated him like a cluster of mosquito bites under his skin. And strange bites they were, on the inside rather than out, located somewhere right above his heart. His old ticker had become a fickle, stuttering thing, easily startled into a race whenever he spotted her at the diner or on a park bench at Heritage Park, her nose buried deep in yet another grand masterpiece of kitsch, that had undoubtedly been obtained at The "Everything" Notions Store downtown, in the pitiful news, magazines and books section.

He was almost glad when important business took him out of town by the end of the week, even if it was only for the day, eager for a chance to get away and be able to breathe freely again. He felt the tension bleed from his pores as he crossed the town line, flying South just under the speed limit, and his lungs sucked in the wonderful fresh air as he sped along the forest road, only to find it had been a Trojan horse, and strangely dusty, like chalk in his lungs, with bricks of it sitting heavy on his chest, causing a constricting sensation within.

By noon, Gold was knackered and longed to return to the Pink House on the hill, gripped by a restless exhaustion that wouldn’t leave him be until he slid back behind the wheel and turned the car around. Deals could wait, people would still be buying homes tomorrow, and he was in the mood for freshly baked apple crumble cake, a strong cup of tea, a good book and a long afternoon nap.

Instructing a slightly mystified Martha to start on the cake immediately, he went outside into the gardens to pluck the best apples he could find, a burst of youthful joy and a spring in his step that made him feel much younger than was his actual age, all sleepiness and aching heart and bones forgotten.

Nearly frightening his poor groundsman half to death as he briskly walked past the man’s crouching form almost hidden from view between the roses, he stopped to apologize, but old Sir M waved his words away with an impatient, earth-covered hand and shot him a toothless smile. The poor man, though not that much Gold’s senior, looked at least a hundred years old. Not only was he almost blind and utterly anosmic, which left everyone wondering how he managed his work, but he was also as silent as a mouse as he scurried about the many flowerbeds and the large orchard day in and day out, rarely to be seen and never to be heard.

He hadn’t been born deaf or mute, Gold supposed, but he had never heard the man speak. Sir M had been their head groundsman even back in the day his mother had still been alive and well, and he had tended to all flora and fauna surrounding the Pink House for as long as Gold could remember. The old man stubbornly refused any help he would occasionally be offered. Gold knew the premises were way too much work for only one man alone, but the old git would not hear any of it. He preferred to work alone and scared off all additional help hired to assist him. As per his own request, he had been permitted to live in the small cabin on the grounds by himself and he seemed content with his work, his flowers, birds and apple trees, and with his life at large, the world and his place in it, avoiding all distraction and company as best he could.

Sir M whistled through his remaining teeth, like he was playing a tiny bone-flute, making Gold start a little at the sudden string of sounds, and to his astonishment, a moment later a bird had taken to answering the groundsman's call and whistled back. In awe, Gold watched and listened to what seemed to be an entire conversation held entirely in high-pitched and beautiful song, and he turned his head this way and that, trying to spot the chatty bird in the nearby trees, but had no such luck. Perhaps it was a fast, little Robin, a bit shy at first, but friendly and sociable with gardeners and people who fed it.

Sir M tapped him on the shoulder, making Gold jump in earnest this time, for he hadn’t heard him step closer, and, laughing soundlessly, the old man pointed at a branch hanging heavy with Fortune apples, their overall red skin - with green streaks peeking through cheekily - kissed by the low afternoon sun and basking in the warm glow. Gold smiled and nodded as he was ushered on further down the row of trees with impatient little gestures.

No use arguing with Sir M - and besides, if anyone knew where to find the perfect apples it was him - so Gold simply did as he was told and walked.

When he turned around again, the old man had disappeared.  

Gold looked around at the beauty that surrounded him, breathing deeply. Bred from Schoharie Spy and Empire, Fortune trees grew well around this neck of the woods, despite their susceptibility to common apple tree diseases. They were biennial, which meant they usually produced fruit in alternate years only.

Even with those issues, however, the unique flavor of the large apples, that mirrored both parent varieties perfectly, made up for all the extra work and careful care and won people over fast; it was both sweet and tart, combined with distinct spicy undertones that made your mouth water and taste buds exclaim in delight. High-quality and long-keeping, apples of the Fortune variety were ideal for eating and in pies and tarts, for they held up when baked and could be used in any recipes calling for tart apples, like Macintosh or Empire. Paired with Golden Delicious for applesauce or diced and mixed with celery and herbs for stuffing pork tenderloin, the large fruits were very versatile in the kitchen and good to be used in a number of dishes to help spice them up and add that little extra, that pang of freshness and flavor, to anything and everything your heart desired - or at least that was what he had them put on the boxes.

Fortune apples normally took until mid-October to ripen, making them available in the mid-fall and throughout the winter months, but for some reason _his_ trees bore fruit annually and early, which came as a huge advantage, because his were the first Fortune apples available on the markets when demand was still high, and Gold had learnt not to question whatever magic tricks old Sir M performed to coax mother nature into stepping it up a notch. A true magician never revealed his secrets after all.

A sound overhead made him look up automatically and he almost jumped back in fright, but froze instead, his heart yo-yoing down into his shoes and shooting back up into his throat right after, making him cough and gasp for air, blood rushing to his face.

Perched on a thick branch, her back resting against the tree trunk, she eyed him curiously, like a red robin waiting to inspect newly-turned soil for earthworms, and she watched him choke and splutter from her high vantage point for a moment, before her forehead creased with concern and she lowered the book she had been reading. Another literary classic wrapped in a candy-colored dust jacket.

“Are you alright, Mr Gold?” she asked, flying into action just like the songbird would have done, with rapid hand and leg movements instead of beating wings, of course, but preparing for short, fast flight all the same.

He held up a hand to stop her, to signal that he did not require assistance, especially not hers, so she remained where she was, sitting on the branch, her short legs dangling in mid-air. And, he saw, just like the robin he had originally been expecting to find sitting in the green canopy in her place, she was wearing distinctive red today, a plain, short cotton dress, and - Gold blushed even deeper over his throbbing temples and averted his gaze hastily -grey undergarments, flimsy silver-grey things made from lace, and no fine stockings to cover her bare, faintly freckled legs, which she was now kicking up nervously. It reminded him of her plumed counterpart hopping about on its perch and chirping with excitement or agitation.

“You sure?” she called down, and he would almost have believed the hint of alarm in her voice, found it strangely endearing even, had she been anyone but herself. Gold wouldn’t be that easily fooled by her sweet voice and worried face. He knew better now.

“Rest assured, Miss,” he croaked with some effort, gulps of air rattling down his throat like lorries down a cobbled street. “I’m fine.” He took another deep breath and turned his gaze to the sky once more, carefully skipping over those parts that were not meant for his eyes to see and fixing her face. She was biting down on her bottom lip like a misbehaving schoolgirl caught red-handed and about to be scolded, and her expression made him chuckle, a sound he hastened to mask by a hearty cough. “May I inquire why you are _resting_ in my apple tree, though? And reading that - pardon my French -” He indicated her book-”garbage?”

Bristling and puffing up her plumage to insulate her small body against the oncoming verbal winds, she sat up a little straighter, reminding him of a very tiny hawk rather than a gentle robin. “Oh, a possessive one, aren’t we? _Your_ table, _your_ town, _your_ tree!” She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “Ever read The Rainbow Fish? A colorful lesson on sharing with others might do you some good, ya know?”

He can’t fight the laugh this time. “As a matter of fact, I am familiar with that particular piece of Children’s literature, Miss. Though I reckon, it’s not a very good book, for it teaches children that in order to receive the love and acceptance they are inherently worth of experiencing just by having been born into this world, they have to change who they are and give up everything that makes them special, that makes them unique and interesting - just to please others and match their ideals of boring mediocrity; it’s drilling into their young, open minds that their sole purpose in life should be to fit in rather than to stand out, to seek acceptance rather than true happiness, and that, Miss, is a message I cannot condone with a clear conscience.”

She gaped at him, open-mouthed, not the least bit concerned that it made her look very un-ladylike, and Gold patted himself on the back in his mind’s eye for having managed to steal her thunder and render her absolutely speechless. _Her move_. Was he imagining things, or had her eyes glazed over, glistening with some genuine emotion under the rays of sunlight peeking through the canopy of leaves - though he couldn’t quite tell at this angle if she was truly touched by his assessment of a brightly-hued fish’s life story or simply cross with him for besting her and breaking her serve.

“S’pose,” she shrugged, feigning disinterest, and plucked a large apple from the nearest branch, polishing it on her dress.

“Oi, Miss!” he warned, and she halted in her tracks for a beat before she smirked down at him, the most mischievous look etched on her pretty features, then pushed out the tip of her tongue between her teeth and said sweetly, “This yours too? Too bad. Should have put ya name on it,” and with that cheeky remark, the bolshy little madam bit into the crisp yellow, the cream-colored flesh of the fruit so juicy, the sticky liquid trailed down her fingers and pooled in the palm of her hand. It was only now that Gold noticed what exquisite hands she had, perfectly proportioned, long slender fingers compared to her small palms, which, though dripping with apple juice at present, he was sure, would be soft as down or fine cotton wool to the touch. Not that he had any intention of touching her.

“Holy cow!” she exclaimed, her pupils blown wide in surprise and pleasure, and she crossed her legs at the ankles, closed her eyes and smacked her lips, savoring the sweet taste he knew was exploding on her tongue right now. “Mhmmm,” Her eyelids and lashes fluttered like soft afterfeathers, her lip curving upward in a satisfied smile, and he wondered what she’d taste like if he cupped her face now and kissed the luscious juice off the glistening, plump pink, parting her lips further to explore this new, exhilarating combination of scents and flavors that was yet uncharted territory to him. 

His warm blood changing direction on him and rushing south, he told himself firmly to keep his wig on, which was - amongst other essential parts of clothing and anatomy, that might or might not have been - in dire, immediate need of calming down. Gold looked away hastily, berating himself for the improper thoughts that had flashed in his mind like lightning in the night sky, illuminating dark parts and earthly desires he often denied having at all, even to himself - for they were a mere inconvenience and a waste of time. He was no man to believe in love. And he didn’t even like her. 

Before he could say knife, the bold Australian robin had jumped down from her tree, arms flying up on landing like a gymnast’s, apple core and book clutched in her hands, and she was standing directly before him now, very much in his space, so he took a small step back, which helped nothing. She was so close to him still, he could smell the sweet honeysuckle in her hair, tempting the birds and bees - and him - to her garden. The scent fruity and warm and gently erotic, he felt a surge of mixed emotions well onto his thundering heart and wash over the poor, overwhelmed and underused thing, bringing a lump to his throat and moisture to his eyes.

In that moment, he wanted to hold her and never let go, wanted her to be his and his alone, but even as the sweet, warm air made him think such delirious thoughts, some part of him knew that, even if it were true and not a figment of his imagination, no feverish dream of a starving heart left for dead in a well-nourished body, she would never allow him to love her and could never love him back. She was a beautiful bird, and beautiful birds were not meant to be kept in cages, no matter how large. Even if he built her one from fine gold and sapphires and longed to keep her safe within, her fiercely independent spirit did not belong behind bars, locked away from the world. Trapped and restrained, her soul would shrivel up and die. He had to let her go, her and the idea of her he had painted in his head, and then he had to forget, for she would not come back to him again.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she said softly, and he snapped out of his melancholy reverie. The book tightly pressed against her heaving chest, she was looking at him, her lip caught between her teeth.

He didn’t know how to - _thoughts, words, movements_ \- didn’t recall how to _human_ all of a sudden, and the moment ticked by again. She blew out a small breath, sucked the dried taste of Fortune from the pad of her thumb, a little self-consciously perhaps, then swiftly removed the book’s jacket and pushed the thing into his arms with a breathless, rushing stream of words, which were winding along and neatly around the heart of the matter. “This is yours. Still in mint condition, don’t worry. Good book too --- Can’t believe the library is _closed_ around here. What town that takes any pride in itself doesn’t have a public library?! -- Odd, isn’t it? A pity too, ya know.” She fidgeted with the empty dust jacket in her hands. “I’ve marked your page for you.”

He looked down at the now vulnerable book, bound in marine blue cloth with plain silver lettering on the front cover. _To the Lighthouse_. He’d been rereading it in part and was fairly certain he had left it on the little coffee table in this study. But then - how had she come to be in possession of it? Had she called upon the Pink House in his absence and been granted entrance and access by his staff? Two questions which warranted an immediate third: _Why_?

She was no longer there to be asked, had turned and run like a frightened vixen, and Gold could only catch a glimpse of red disappearing in the distance. He sighed.

His mouth dry and his trembling fingers damp from nerves, he opened the book to the page that had been marked, the story well into the third part already, the remaining Ramsays en route to return to their summer home ten years after the events of Part I. It was, however, not the familiar story of the Ramsay family and their guests on their sea voyage that caught and held his attention, but the slip of paper that had been used to stand in as impromptu bookmark - more precisely, the printed emblem in the top right corner: A red triangle embracing the white outline of Australia’s most famous wildlife representative. Kangaroo. _Flying Kangaroo_.

Without warning, memories came rushing in like the tide, hitting him with the force of the QE II at full speed ahead and upsetting his comfortable cockleshell of a quiet small-town life.

 _Gold dropped the book_.


	4. Chapter 4

Lacey French had been a flight attendant for five years. Had her life been a romance novel, a cotton candy kind of story of the chick lit variety, she would have met some handsome, supposedly rich passenger and settled down in some sunny suburb by now, forever irked by the very friendly neighbour men who thought it sexy to flirt with an ex-flight attendant. As things were, however, it seemed far more likely that she would one day be forced out by the airline because of some fabricated reason to replace older flight attendants with the endless supply of younger girls who demanded nothing and cost even less.

True, discrimination laws meant that some flight attendants stayed on well past their sell-by dates, and long after they had lost their youthful figures and zest for the job, but those were either dragons or pushovers. At age 25 Lacey was neither. Not enough seniority for a dragon just yet and way too much self-respect to pull her head in and take everyone’s crap in diligent silence.

She was what Mal, head-dragon internationale in charge, called ‘ _efficient, but uncomfortable_ ’. Lacey knew that it was said efficiency, her knack for handling problematic passengers and stressful situations, that kept her in the job and her food on the table - which was, more often than not, of the folding tray variety. It was her _uncomfortably efficient_ personality that secured her the lines she wanted and a schedule that was mostly to her liking - despite her young age, big mouth and messy attitude - and she liked her job, for the most part, on most days.

Today, not so much. Today, she was late. Again. With a resolute smile on her face and her heart drumming in her ears, Lacey hurried past the Heinemann Tax  & Duty Free, going at a brisk power walk pace that was supposed to suggest purpose rather than headless panic. It wasn’t the heels, she could have run a marathon in those ( _even if they were her concorde shoes_ ), but she was not supposed to run. Not when she was wearing the colors.

Overhead, she could hear Mal’s booming, impatient voice calling from the speakers: “This is the final boarding call for passengers Astrid and Leroy Étoile booked on flight QF11 to New York. Please proceed to gate 8 _immediately_. The final checks are being completed and the captain will order for the doors of the aircraft to close in approximately five minutes time. I repeat. This is the final boarding call for Astrid and Leroy Étoile. Thank you.”

Even at the relatively civil pace, Lacey’s tight-fitted uniform clung to her hot skin like melted ice cream to a toddler’s face: a sticky, uncomfortable swirl of navy blue, reds, and fuchsia. She desperately needed to get her heart rate to slow down - just enough so her pores would stop bloody sweating - or her body’s futile attempts at self-ventilation would seriously mess up both her bold stripe dress and her flawless makeup, and she couldn’t have that. Not today. Not on top of being, well, _just on time_. Dark pit stains, ruined makeup and sweating like a pig and she might as well turn up donning sparkly blue eyeshadow, horn-rimmed glasses and orange lipstick. Mal would have a stroke.

Terminal 1. Gate 8. _Finally._

Screeching to a halt on the polished tiles, she smiled at Ari behind the desk, quickly fixed her scarf and bun in the monitor’s reflection, and, in passing, winked at Mei-Li who was boarding their last passengers, checking passports and boarding passes like a ticket machine on the London Underground.

When she passed, Mei-Li gave her _the look_ \- that exasperated, slightly bemused one that said _Guuurl_ \- capitalized ‘G’ and elongated ‘u’ sound, followed by at least three exclamation marks. Mei-Li never used exclamation marks or emoticons, but her dark brows had a certain way of travelling upwards, just by a hair’s breadth, and knitting together in the middle whenever she was surprised. Not that anyone would be surprised by her last-call-punctuality anymore - that was hardly news, not even yesterday’s. Lacey grinned, ducked her head, and strode down the jet bridge, her heels clacking on the floor, the sound reverberating off the walls.

======

“Good afternoon passengers. This is your captain speaking. First I'd like to welcome everyone on Qantas Flight QF11. We are currently cruising at an altitude of 33,000 feet at an airspeed of 400 miles per hour. The time is 10:30 am. The weather looks good and with the tailwind on our side we are expecting to land in Los Angeles on schedule. The weather in L.A. is clear and sunny, perhaps a little much so, with temperatures in the 90s to 100s expected on arrival. If the weather cooperates we should get a great view of the city as we descend. The cabin crew will be coming around in about twenty minutes time to offer you a light snack and beverage, and the inflight movie will begin shortly after that. I'll talk to you again before we reach our destination. Until then, sit back, relax and enjoy the rest of the flight.”

Lacey grinned, knowing how much Captain Hunt despised the heat. He’d hate every second of their short two-hour stopover in Los Angeles. Perhaps she could interest him in joining her for a refreshing dip in the resort-style swimming pool at the LAX hotel, she thought, explaining to a befuddled, agitated passenger how the lavatory doors worked.

( _No, it’s not witchcraft, just common sense, people! And, to make matters even more confusing and complicated, yes, there actually are secret latches too - one to open the door from the outside, even when it’s locked - shocker! - and another to join two lavatory cabins together from the inside, you know, should you desperately find yourself needing to scratch that itch sometime. But shhhh, that’s a secret and no one ever does it, of course not, and certainly not she, no. She wouldn’t dream of having a naughty in the clouds, no Sir!_ ). 

The Boeing 747-400 Longreach was a large enough bird to comfortably get everyone to JFK via LAX: approx. 9963 miles, 22hr 05min, and nothing but blue sky ahead of them. It was a Red Eye, a night flight, roughly 14 hours to their stop in LA ( _usually arriving at least 30min delayed_ ), two hours overlay at LAX and then a home stretch of roughly another five and a half hours going from LA to the Big Apple.

Lacey enjoyed living the crazy life of a flight attendant, flying around the globe non-stop to exotic destinations, swanning about in five-star hotels, lazing around fancy hotel pools and even tabletop dancing with big names in the biz occasionally; but it wasn’t all beer and skittles from behind the curtains either. Her many mishaps included breaking her wrist in London ( _fuck them heavy plug doors!_ ), being bitten by a bloody snake in Bangkok, and having to have a chipped tooth filled in Rio de Janeiro, a cap placed over it to restore its normal appearance, after she’d been hit in the face by someone’s luggage in the baggage claim area. Long flights weren’t the problem, dumb people were, and sometimes stubborn inanimate objects.

She had been lucky enough not to have had many nightmare flights so far, even though she flew as much as possible - less than only a few, and more than most - just under the legally allowed limit. Her one flight from hell hadn’t starred some celebrity who was three sheets in the wind and went AWOL, trying to pee on the floor, but just a cheating, lying (ex-)boyfriend and some very awkward conversations with the girl he had brought on the plane with him ( _using her industry discount for the tickets, mind, that bastard!_ ). By the time they had touched down in Fiji, both her and the other girl had dumped his ugly ass, and she had made personally sure his name ended up on the blacklist, which meant he’d only receive minimal service and be met with polite, but cool indifference from all Qantas staff from that day forward and for the rest of his miserable existence.

Today’s flight was turning out to be business as usual, nothing out of the ordinary so far, just the usual endless array of passenger demands, the friendly chit-chat that made her brain melt, and, of course, the smiling until her face fell off - even in those cases when she was met with nothing but ridiculous rudeness and/or astounding idiocy.

Flight attendants were told they needed to give their full attention to passengers, ask appropriate questions only and always be polite; rule number one of flight attendant school being  ‘ _Listen up --- and be nice!_ ’, or, at least that rule qualified as rule number three, with the undisputed number one going to the all-time fan-favorite ‘ _Always be on time!_ ’, followed by a close unspoken second that stated you should try and look something like a cutout from a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, or as close to one as humanly possible anyway - immaculate appearance and perfect posture, even in ridiculously tight, impractical clothing and while running up and down a moving catwalk of aisles high above the clouds. Bonus points if performed while pushing heavy carts.

To be a Qantas flight attendant you had to be, well, not hideous at least, and between 163 cm and 183 cm in height, a requirement that Lacey, being only a very tall 157 cm, did only meet in heels, but thankfully no one had fetched a ruler or their trusted measuring tape and checked during the application process or her training period. There were no official rules regarding waistlines, but cabin crew had to have what they called ‘ _a reasonable weight in proportion to height’_ in order to be able to sit in the jump seat without an extended seat belt and to fit through the emergency exit window.

Crew members had to have an excellent level of health and fitness, their training including having to lift a 28kg window exit, swimming 50m fully clothed and assisting people in the water, and they also needed a strong immune system to ward off illness, nasty bugs frequently being passed on over the AC and ventilation systems. A healthy, strong body helped to bounce back from long trips and to withstand the ever-changing schedules, last-minute calls and general crazy hours that came with the job - especially in all entrance level positions, with the unmarried and childless on-call-reserves usually being the ones to draw the shortest sticks of them all by default.

Even if she was perfectly healthy and fit as a fiddle, Lacey often struggled with the carry-on luggage in the overhead bins and even more so with the owners of said luggage, who wouldn’t or couldn’t understand that a small person like herself didn’t much fancy being squished to death or suffering serious head-trauma by something roughly the same weight as a baby elephant falling on her head. She was only a common Muggle, sadly unable to shrink bags and trunks at will, and could not expand available overhead space with a simple swish and flick of her non-existing wand either.

What she lacked in pixie dust and magical talent, she then had to make up in patience, explaining again and again, in the simplest words possible - much like a kindergarten teacher teaching the ABCs - that carry-on luggage, if stored incorrectly, was a potential safety hazard, her passengers feigning sudden deafness whenever she began closing the lecture on common sense with the magic words of “All overhead bins are full,” ( _yes, she has checked, but yes, she can certainly go check again. --- Ah, ooh, surprise! Nope, still full to the brim. So very, very sorry for the inconvenience._ ), followed by “Please place your bag under the seat in front of you --- ( _yes, all the way under. A little more. And then some. Yes. Yes, that’s perfect._ ). Thank you. ( _And here’s a unicorn sticker and a gold star for nailing it on the 5th attempt. You go, you!_ )”

Having mentally snoozed through door closure, take-off, safety demonstration and the usual battery of announcements, Lacey sprung into proper action to serve refreshments and snacks a short while later, almost as soon as they had passed above clouds and small turbulence and Captain Hunt had switched off the _Fasten Seatbelt_ sign, the aircraft still climbing to its cruising altitude, however, while another girl - Oona - announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned off the _Fasten Seatbelt_ sign, and you may now move around the cabin. However, we always recommend to keep your seatbelt fastened while you’re seated. In a few moments, cabin crew will be passing around the cabin to offer you hot or cold drinks, as well as a selection of snacks. Alcoholic beverages are also available at a nominal charge and per request. Please, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. Thank you.”

The flight attendants pushed their carts up and down the aisles, inquiring after their passengers’ wishes and inviting them to release their seat belts if needed. Lacey was steering a heavy beverage cart, laden with coffee, tea, a selection of juices ( _Yes, tomato juice. Why people willingly chose to drink that disgusting, red sin before God, was beyond her._ ) and coke.

They then repeated the same ritual for lunch and once again for more refreshments after that, also handing out pillows, blankets, earplugs and sleeping masks.

Her brain on autopilot to save battery power, Lacey kept repeating herself like a broken record: “Coffee or tea, coffee or tea? Coffee or tea? --- One diet-coke, here you go. --- Would you like some milk with your complimentary beverage, Sir? --- Ooops, here you go, another napkin. Not to worry, Miss, not to worry. --- Two sugars? No, three --- certainly. That’s fine. --- Why yes, of course I can take your bawling child’s nappies for you, Madame, no worries. No, not a problem. Not at all. ( _Ick!_ ) --- And your adorable, petulant little ankle-biter is making a racket and being absolutely darling, throwing ~~his or~~ her mashed potato everywhere, because ~~he or~~ she wants a candy bar and a window seat? Here, Miss, allow me to help by dropping everything I am doing right this instant and running back to fetch you a wet face flannel and a Mars bar ( _complimentary, natch_ ), and let’s see if I can nudge awake the old lady, the one peacefully dozing through all the hoo-ha and commotion, to ask if, perhaps, I can move you back a row to get little _what’s-her-name_ a window seat. How does that sound? --- Wonderful, my pleasure. --- No, no, not at all. --- Enjoy your flight.”

Handling increasingly whiny passengers on a long-distance flight, doing your best to make them happy and comfortable, was like giving a donkey strawberries - a bloody waste of resources and energy, but it came with the job and she had chosen said job, and was fine with the big and small tragedies and comedies unwinding before her eyes, having developed a thick skin and a poker face that would get her through the apocalypse. At least she would never run out of stories to tell, should she ever decide to write her memoirs.

In passing and from the corner of her eye, Lacey caught one of her colleagues signaling her in code, the secret language of flight attendants they all used, and, curious, she followed her to the CRCs and safely out of earshot from any passengers or fellow crew. Inside the Crew Rest Compartment, they found a very red-eyed Kate, who was rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic, fluffing the pillows and folding blankets absentmindedly, and the two new arrivals exchanged a pointed look, but didn’t have to ask. Kate had probably broken up with her boyfriend again. Lacey quickly patted her on the back, as she and her continuous sniffling left the room. 

The moment they were alone, the fury burst out of Lil like hot magma erupting from a volcano. “I swear, Lace, we are only a few hours in and I am already _this_ close -” she gestured with her hands -“To committing homicide and forcing this fat bird down in the middle of nowhere!” Lily shrieked, figurative sparks flying from her nose as she huffed. “Between my mother working the same aircraft - which, by the way, is not big enough for the both of us - and that absolute dick in seat D49 - and the two of them bossing me around and sending me bouncing like a freaking tennis ball - I _am_ going to lose it and strangle _someone_ tonight!” She blew out a breath, trembling with rage, and put her hands on her hips.

Lilith Page, Mal’s daughter, had followed in her mother’s footsteps, hoping that once she got out of training, she’d be able to spread her wings, fly the nest and get out from under Mal’s thumb, but the old dragon made it extremely difficult. She had insisted Lilith would earn her stripes within the same airline as she had and often co-coordinated their schedules, much to her daughter’s dismay, showering her in constant unbidden advice and smothering her with her overbearing demeanour and high expectations. Lacey shot her friend a sympathetic smile. They didn’t know each other well outside of work - not at all, actually - but in the belly of a flying kangaroo, Lil was the closest thing to a good friend that she had.

“Tell you what,” she said, ushering her back outside and following suit. “You go deal with _mother dearest_ and I will take over the git. Haven’t met a nutjob yet I couldn’t crack.”

Lil opened her mouth, perhaps to agree and thank her, but, as if on cue, they were interrupted by and alerted to someone pressing the call light like they were playing a game of whack-a-mole at the arcade. _D49_. Of course.

“There you go. Enjoy!” Lil grinned, her spirits somewhat lifted. “Man, I wish I had some popcorn and the time on my hands to go watch you chew him out,” she said wistfully, readjusting her name tag. “Poor bastard won’t know what hit him!”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lacey asked innocently, wiggling her eyebrows. “I am the loveliest creature aboard this plane, my dear.”

“Kill him with kindness, sister!” Lil said, as they were about to part ways, Lacey headed to Zone D - _Economy_ \- in the back of the plane, while Lily was going to turn the other way to find her mother in First Class. Dragons always lodged in First Class, watching over their precious, rich, golden eggs, hoping to secure more treasures from them in the future.     

 "All I do is think and blink,” Lacey said, folding her arms in characteristic fashion, and, the stupidest, exaggerated, eager grin plastered on her face, she blinked and nodded heartily, adding the cheesy sound effect herself. “Yes, Master. No, Master. At once, Master. --- Oh, not the bottle, Master!”

They both snorted.

“You go, Jeannie!” Lil laughed, and Lacey saluted, the _I Dream of Jeannie_ theme stuck in her head and playing on a loop as she walked down the aisle.  


	5. Chapter 5

D49 was a conceited jackass, who took the ‘ _if you need anything, just press the call light_ ’ at face value and kept her on her feet and rushing back and forth non-stop, as if he, in his expensive tailored suit and Italian leather shoes was the only passenger in Zone D, and the only one who had been stuck in a flying whale for hours on end. 

Economy aisles were no Premium cabins. Only when you sat in first-class did you get a better meal to eat. And the on-demand inflight entertainment, which was the same in every seat, with the latest movie releases, TV shows, music and more, would not suffice to comfort and console His crotchety Highness and take his mind off the lack of sustainable and locally sourced produce, silver service trained cabin staff, a choice of 12 different delicious main courses - with the opportunity to indulge in an 8-course tasting menu - and the most highly awarded selections of wine and prestige champagnes in the skies that came with Sommeliers, special cabin crew who had been exhaustively trained in all aspects of wine service, in International Business and First.

Usually a golden egg, a First customer used to having cabin crew wait on his hand and foot, D49 was a royal pain in the ass. He turned up his nose at the lunch choices, the snacks, the drinks - even at _her_ and everything she did or didn’t do - and, as more block time passed, Lacey began to understand why Lil had seriously contemplated homicide and why Jeannie dreaded that pink bottle of hers so very, very much.

Bracing herself for yet another lovely, stimulating conversation with His Highness, Lacey pushed her cart a little further in his direction.

“Would you like something else to drink, Sir?” she asked, and he didn’t even look up from the paper he was reading, “Aye, just give me a diet coke, dearie.”

Oh, he was pushing her buttons that one! Give him? _Give_ him?! ---- _Dearie_? No please, no thank you? It was bad enough that he demanded she served him his drink - yes, _demanded_ , for there was no other way to put it - and bad enough also, that he didn’t even look at her as he responded in that bored, aloof voice, but what did it - truly did it for her - was that he didn’t add a _please_ to the end of his --- _request_ , and she was right not to expect a _thank you_ from him either, as she carefully placed a cup on his tray.

She had to shake it off, stay polite, couldn’t give him the curry he deserved for his rudeness, the bloody, rich robot in his suit with his dumb, posh paper, so she went, “Right, Sir. --- And would you like ice with your drink?,” at which he had the grace to glance at her briefly, before his eyes zoomed back to print.

“No, just give me the whole can, dearie.”

Again, with the imperatives and endearments that were none! Lacey wanted to strangle him on the spot. What did she do wrong? It wasn’t her fault, at least not hers personally, that there had been a scheduling issue of some sort that had landed his pompous arse in coach rather than First and that he had his knickers in a twist over it, and over the damn pea that he was apparently sitting on. No need to take his bad temper out on her! They all did, though. They always did. She just had to keep going.

“Sorry, Sir. Unfortunately, I cannot give away the entire can until everyone’s been served. Qantas policy, not mine.”

That got his attention, his face quickly turning as red as the tomato juice on her cart. “I don’t care. Just give me the can, please, dear.”

Lacey took a deep breath. “Sorry, Sir. I can’t do that. If we just gave out the cans like that, there wouldn’t be enough left for everyone. Surely, you do understand. Again, I’m really sorry.”

She’d cracked up the can and his cup was already half full, and the look on his face was priceless, as he lowered his paper at long last, his white hands crinkling it. “You _are_ going to give me that can, darling.”

His voice had lowered in pitch, sending a warning jolt through her abdomen. Someone was getting mad, mad as a cut snake, and fast, his accent thickening as his patience thinned, and she had to tread very carefully now. “I am so, _so_ sorry, Sir. If there is any left after the service is done -”

“Now, will you just hand over that bloody can!”

 _Silence_. People had turned their heads and were watching, their little in-flight drama - or perhaps comedy, depending on vantage point and sense of humor - apparently far more entertaining than whatever was happening on their monitors. He had done it, verbally threatened a crew member aboard a flying airplane, a big no-no, a faux-pas that forced him onto his back foot, even if he didn’t know it yet. Flying too was a game of two halves and his luck was about to change.

“Well then, Sir, how would you like an emergency diversion and unscheduled landing in the middle of nowhere with your drink then? You might want to ask for a whole bottle instead of a can, because we could be down there a while. In which case, I would be more than happy to hand out any and all beverages on my cart to keep all passengers happy while we wait for clearance to resume travel to our destination,” she said, her voice liquid honey and sunshine. “And I must ask you respectfully to please keep your voice down, so as not to disturb your fellow passengers. Could you do that for me? Thank you.”

“Keep the can and let me read, will you,” he grumbled, voice lowered, and Lacey had to fight the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she replied, “Of course, Sir. Sorry for the disturbance and inconvenience. Enjoy your flight.” And with that, she pushed her cart to the next row and addressed the smiling young woman seated behind him: “Would you like something to drink, Miss?”

“Could I have a 7 Up, please? --- With ice if you have some? Thank you.”

Lacey smiled, pouring the requested drink into a plastic cup. “Certainly. Here you go, Miss.” 

======

“This turbulence should only last a few minutes,” Hunt had said. “It might be a bumpy ride down because we are flying through smoke.”

They were flying holding pattern above the City of Angels, circling the airport until they had gained clearance, and, by doing so, had turned the relatively small turbulence into a lengthy ride on a merry-go-round at the amusement park. Sitting in the jump seat, Lacey could both hear and smell passengers lose their lunch into the paper bags, and she tried to keep her mouth closed and her mind blank, pinching her wrinkled nose with two fingers. 

Occasionally, turbulence would occur during a flight, but unlike their passengers, Lacey was used to the jerky movements of the aircraft. The seatbelt sign had turned on and, as it was the case with moderate to severe turbulence, they had made a brief announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence due to weather conditions. Please return to your seats and keep your seat belts fastened. There is a paper bag in front of you in case you experience motion sickness. Thank you. --- Cabin crew, please be seated.”

Touchdown wasn’t smooth, and when they had made it to the ground, the plane almost missed the runway because it were such hazy conditions to land in. Lacey was sure Hunt had had to do it unseeing. Everyone breathing sighs of relief, the plane then had turned off the runway slowly, taxiing to the gate and Oona had done the last in-flight announcement which had been met with clapping from the passengers, clapping, which roughly translated to ‘ _Thank God, I’m not dead! --- Phew! Great_.’:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Los Angeles Airport. Local time is 7:30am and the temperature 84°F. For your safety and comfort, please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until the Captain turns off the _Fasten Seatbelt_ sign and we are safely parked at the gate. Cellular phones may only be used once the _Fasten Seatbelt_ sign has been turned off. Please check around your seat for any personal belongings you may have brought on board with you and please use caution when opening the overhead bins, as heavy items may have shifted around during the flight. If you require deplaning assistance, please remain in your seat until all other passengers have deplaned. One of our crew members will then be pleased to assist you . --- All passengers booked on our connecting flight to New York, please take note that our regular stopover time is 1h 30mins and departure scheduled for 8:55am from Terminal B. --- On behalf of Qantas Airlines, Captain Graham Hunt and the entire cabin crew, I’d like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice day!”


	6. Chapter 6

Temperatures soared as Southern California's heat wave intensified, and according to the very sorry news anchor an end to the plight was not yet in sight, the heat still nearing its peak. Temperatures were predicted to reach the low to mid-80s at the beaches and the high-90s to 100s inland all week, with a merciless 100 expected for LA today and tomorrow. The dry and hot conditions led the weather agency to issue red flag warnings for the mountains, because of sundowner winds in the southern part of Santa Barbara County, cooling centers had opened their doors throughout the Southland for those needing refuge, and the firefighters continued to fight a battle between David and Goliath against the fire, which had already burned thousands and thousands of acres, the smoke contributing to hazy conditions as far south as Los Angeles and Orange counties - according to the South Coast Air Quality Management District - and it was those hazy conditions that were responsible for all aircraft at LAX having halted from taking off or landing in a total ground stop.

The forecaster said relief was coming soon, but until then, to stay cool and hydrated, and Lacey, lying on the hard mattress of the creaking bed in her stuffy hotel room, wearing nothing but her thin panties, snorted with derision. She was Australian, her body able to bear the heat, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Especially not if she was stuck in a room with broken air conditioning and too exhausted and sticky to do anything about it.

This was the kind of weather that meant you woke up sweaty, you went to bed sweaty and you got out of the shower sweaty, the horrible, ever present heat a constant companion, raining down on you like the breath of hell during every waking hour of the day and most of the night too. Heat pushing in on her, Lacey felt as claustrophobic as a cat in a box. With only the old, wheezing fan sitting on a small chair in the corner of the room to raise a pathetic, almost imperceptible breeze that did absolutely nothing for the almost overwhelming humidity, it was like breathing in bath water. Despite remaining as motionless as a rag doll on the crisp linen sheets, a trail of sweat rolled down her forehead, washing mascara into her eyes, and Lacey swore loudly, bolting upright and clapping a hand to her stinging eye.

Half an uncomfortable eternity in the tiny bathroom and a short nap later, when they had been informed that the ground stop for LAX had not been lifted and would not be over until next morning for sure - which meant they were stuck here until breakfast and quite possibly even longer than that - Lacey sat at the edge of the hotel pool, her back turned to the hot sunrays and her feet in the water. Her head felt hot, the heat sinking into her dark hair as efficiently as tarmac. She kicked at the inviting cool water, while toying with the idea of swimming, but balked at the thought of unnecessary physical activity. It would be something to do, a break from the sweltering heat, but she was very, very tired, which also made her very, very lazy.

She was joined by Oona, Gus and Will for a little bit, and while she admired Oona for her lovely singing voice and Will, who would laugh to see a pudding crawl, told the most amusing jokes that always made her smile, she couldn’t stand Gus. Good-looking and knowing it too, he was a pompous guy, all mouth and trousers and constantly big-noting himself; and so, when he began pestering her about joining them, which was to say him, for a drink later that evening, she gave him the flick as fast as she could and excused herself with a vague “Yeah, let’s do that,” to return to her room, shed her swimmers and hop under the shower, not caring if he called her a slam clicker behind her back.

======

Annoyed, but also very hungry she ventured back out into the hall eventually, after having realized, disoriented and dazed, that she had fallen asleep without meaning to and missed dinner, and that also it was already the middle of the night. The rest of the crew would surely be fast asleep by now or out and about killing brain cells, and while flight attendants had to always be well-groomed, she was off-duty and didn’t feel the least bit guilty over leaving her room in her underwear and simply wrapping herself in the stunning red lined trench coat in French Navy, that was part of her uniform and provided extra warmth in cooler climates and protection from prying eyes whenever she had spilled some expensive _what’s-it’s-name_ or _it-costs-what-a-glass_ down her dress and forgotten to pack a spare, anxiously waiting for dry-cleaning to undo the damage. She left her damp hair down, not in the mood to try and tame it just to get a drink and a bowl of whatever edible thing they still served at the bar at such an ungodly hour.

When she got to the bar, however, the place was deserted, positively dead, two men and a dog, no more alcohol or food to be served until tomorrow. Resigned anger bubbling in her jet belly, she stomped back, only to find that if she was to return to her room now, she’d be bailed in by Gus, loitering by her door. Gus who meant well, but couldn’t take a hint, and there was only one thing worse than being cornered by Gus in a narrow hotel hallway, which was being cornered by _drunk_ Gus in a narrow hotel hallway.

Sure, cabin crew hooked up all the time and left right and center, up in the air and down on the ground, which mostly meant and led to nothing, but sometimes ended in - more or less welcome - children, marriage, golden retrievers and picket fences. Flight attendants slept with captains, passengers and other flight attendants. Everyone knew it and nobody cared. She herself had had a fling or two with captains before, but usually made a point of not dating fellow flight attendants. Too many possible strings attached, too much mess to get tangled up in if things went south. Captains were easy. They fucked like they worked: in, up, and out in a flash - after sticking a very smooth landing. It wasn’t love, it was only physical, but it was _something_. Something warm and soft and _available_ , awake in the same small hours of morning she was, ready and willing, no questions asked.  

No one was awake tonight. Stranded and temporarily homeless, Lacey fished some loose change out of her coat pocket, feeding it to the only vending machine on the floor, which looked shabby, but held the whole shebang: It even had four different flavors of M&Ms, her favorite Skittles and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Deciding on a pack of crisps and red Skittles, Lacey pressed the respective buttons, only to have the ruddy machine swallow all her money and spit out absolutely nothing in return.

Frustrated, she leaned against it, softly banging her palm and sweaty forehead against the milky glass. _Bloody brilliant_. Leg QF11 from SYD to LAX had officially made her top 10 of worst flights ever flown.

“Miss? Are you alright?” Startled, Lacey jumped back and whirled around. It was D49, but contrary to this afternoon, he was smiling at her. “The ill-mannered machine giving you grief?” he asked, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a card. She could see the dark, soft leather was filled with cards, assuming that some were IDs and others credit cards, a few membership cards thrown into the mix and the odd sentimental keepsake too, she guessed, but she had a hard time believing that one person could own as many cards as he did and still know what all of them were for.

He swiped the one he was holding and rapidly typed in a very long number, after which the machine shut down completely, all the lights switching off - even on the inside - and then it stuttered back to life again, noisily releasing one pack or bag of each of the items it contained, one after the other as they watched.

“Ah, well, that sometimes happens,” he said, shrugging, not the least bit perturbed by what had just happened, which made her wonder if he did it all the time. “I hope you have brought a very sweet tooth and an appetite, Miss.” He shot her a glance and chuckled, and Lacey hastily rearranged her features into something more dignified and closed her mouth. Had he --- _hacked_ the thing? Reset it? Paid or bribed it to perform that neat little trick? Did _everyone_ and _everything_ jump through hoops for this man? And _gladly_?

Lacey studied him out of the corner of her eye. He was older than she was. At least 10, but more like 20+ years her senior, his hair as grey as his fine suit, though lighter in shade and streaked through with darker strands and strands that were so white it made them translucent and almost invisible. Despite his undeniable age, he looked fit and healthy, and his strong features, though perhaps not considered conventionally attractive, made him stand out, made him _interesting_ and made him handsome in that edgy kind of way that Lacey associated with old whiskey, firewood logs and fast cars.

“Uh, um, thank you,” she said, but didn’t move, so he scooped up everything into his arms for her instead.

“Where to, Miss?”

“I- I am not sure?” she replied, thinking, hesitating. He obviously hadn’t recognized her and clearly his room had perfect air conditioning - for he wasn’t nearly as disheveled-looking and uncomfortably hot as she was. Her eyes darted from the jumbled junk food in his arms to his waiting face and back again. Half of the haul was, or contained chocolate, which would melt miserably before she could so much as tear open the packaging. Lacey bit her lip. “It’s all going to melt,” she informed him, voice meek, at which he raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. “Something is wrong with the AC in my room and I can’t keep it all cool long enough, so ---,” she licked her lips-“perhaps, you’d like to take half of the lot - or more - yourself? It’s technically yours anyway, I really only came for the Skittles,” She indicated the bright red plastic peeking out of the pile and smiled.

So did he, but he was shaking his head. “I don’t care for sweets, Miss. Frankly, I don’t even know what half of this is, but since we’re apparently the only two people still awake and the bar is closed, could I maybe interest you in taking a drink from my minibar with me instead while you wait for your air conditioning to be fixed? I am sure by the time they have it up and running again we’ll have found a solution to our unexpected, little sugary problem.”

She should not have said yes, should not have followed him to the lift and up to his room with the long windows and breathtaking view, but she had and now here she was, and there was he, handing her a glass of whisky sour on the rocks as they discussed jobs and travelling benefits. And she had revealed that she was a stewardess ( _though, she did not tell him which airline she worked for_ ) and he said that he was in the business of making deals with people, deals that revolved around apples and furniture, which was a pretty strange and evasive thing to say about any line of work, and she wasn’t sure what it meant, but she didn’t mind.

He even gave her his business card at some point, after she hadn’t been able to refrain from asking him about his many, many cards, even though she knew the question was highly inappropriate. But he had indulged her nonetheless and handed over the smooth, rough-cut paper rectangle to her. It sat surprisingly heavy on her palm, but only showed a picture of a large, green apple, a phone number and the initials R.G. in bold lettering. Not very informative either, was it. Lacey smiled and shrugged, handing it back.

“So, where you’re based?” she asked next, to which he replied that he was from a small village by the sea, a little out of Boston, volleying her own question back at her, which she chose to deflect by saying that she didn’t feel like she was truly based anywhere these days, because she spent so much time on the road, well, technically, whooshing by on the roads in the sky, which, he said, he understood perfectly.

Then they spent some time abusing the weather that prevented her from shopping in NY and had caused him to miss the meeting that had been the original purpose of his trip, and before she knew it, Lacey was lying on his bed on her stomach, her feet in the air and her fast fingers flipping through the channels on the muted television, trying to find some good trash TV to provide the backdrop for their conversation, while she binged on M&Ms and Skittles.

“It’s just, I can’t _believe_ some of the women who fly First and who’ve paid 20,000+ bucks for their ticket, but then go and steal the cutlery and the amenities,” Lacey said, shaking her head as she laughed. “If they’ve paid _that_ much, all they would have to do is bloody _ask_ and we’d give it to them - and even tie a pretty ribbon around it first, making it a giftset, probably!”

D49 laughed with her. “I had no idea I’ve been flying shoulder to shoulder with thieving magpies all this time. Though, perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me.”

“Are you satisfied with First?” she asked, despite herself.  


“Yeah, I am. It depends on the airline, though. American Airlines does a pretty neat job. For something _American_ , I mean,” he quipped.

“So I’ve heard.”

“So, you’re not AA then?” He grinned at her and she narrowed her eyes. “How many more drinks does it take for you to open up and me to wheedle your employer’s name out of you - or your own? --- I pray to God it’s not Diamond, Precious or --- _Candy_ , and that it doesn’t say   Delta on your paycheck.” He winked at her. “Delta 360 is a joke and their new uniforms are an eyesore - all that bright _red_ \----” Sighing, he trailed off, shook his head and poured her another drink.

“I like Delta. The girls are nice,” she said, sipping at the fiery liquid and popping more chocolate-clad peanuts into her mouth. “Their kiosk placement blows, though.”

“True,” he nodded, toasting her, and after a beat he said, “Not Delta either then. Let’s see ---,” thinking, at which she put a finger to her lips and then pretended to zip them, throwing the key over her shoulder like a coin into a wishing well.

“Well, it’s certainly not US Airways. They have a reputation for lost luggage and poor overall quality and customer service. I don't know how they're still in business with those numbers.”

She downed what was left at the bottom of her glass, held it out for more and giggled, wriggling on the bed. “Nuh-huh,” she said, wagging a sugar-and-coloring-coated finger at him. “Not telling.”

“We’ll see,” He smirked, refilling their drinks.

At some point, she had flipped to a reality TV contest with dancers, momentarily mesmerized by the graceful movements and colorful costumes on the screen, and suddenly he’d been behind her, massaging her stiff neck and shoulders, and, with a contented sigh she had melted into his touch, welcoming it, her warm muscles like butter under his strong, skilled hands.

When he was done, he ran his fingers through her curls, brushing the curtain of hair away from her face and behind her ear. And then he scooped her up in his arms and began to kiss her lips slowly, gently, her body pressing against him on its own accord, the heat rising and pressure building within her. As he opened her coat, she remembered that she was only wearing her underwear underneath it and, biting down on her bottom lip, she worried it might look cheap, like she had planned this, when nothing could have been further from the truth.

Sensing her discomfort and hesitation, his hands stilled immediately.

“Yes?” he asked softly, and she had breathed a small, but definitive “yes.” onto his soft lips, before following after the sounds with her own until they met their mark.

When the kiss broke, he cupped her face and looked into her eyes, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. It was that kiss, the small, utterly unexpected gesture of affection, that broke her, and broke her hard, flooding her with a sense of bliss that made her go boneless and laid her bare, stripped of her clothing and thick, protective skin alike, vulnerable and open to his words and touch, but it didn’t scare her, not yet, not now, not when he had so carefully moved over to her, lain down next to her on the covers and touched her cheek, caressing it as if in awe of some wondrous magical thing she couldn’t see, before he began slowly exploring every inch of her skin with his rough fingertips and silky, hot lips - carefully and thoroughly like a cartographer charting a strange new land.

It was a land without magic, harsh and bruised and scarred, but he didn’t seem to mind as he buried his face into her neck and breathed in, causing her to shiver and sigh happily. Smiling up at him as if he were the sun in the sky, she watched him as he sat up and took off his shirt, revealing lots of faintly tanned, toned skin. She blinked and her hands reached out for him and pulled him on top of her. And, as he carefully straddled her and their kissing grew more passionate, urgent and sloppy, she ran her palms across his abdomen greedily, over his chest, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down closer.

He leaned down to kiss her neck, and she felt his fingers close around her wrists. He slowly moved them up above her head and dragged his lips across her arm, kissing the back of one hand as his moved it like a gentleman in a B/W movie.

They were both smiling warmly now and he kissed her again, the pace between them picking up once more. Lacey left her arms above her head as he moved his lips down her neck and over one of her breasts, and continued to move lower, down her torso, and over her stomach.

When he reached the pubic bone, he blew a kiss to it that had her lift her hips eagerly and close her eyes, but instead, he sat up, a wicked grin on his face as he pressed his fingertips into her hips and leaned over to kiss her on the mouth again, slipping his tongue into her mouth and making it last for much longer than she would have thought it possible to go without breathing. When he finally pulled back, she gasped, and he allowed her to sit up on her knees and help get rid of his trousers and boxers, which they sent flying across the room.

Next, she was back on her back, propped up a little by the down pillows, and her heart swelled and her eyes lit up, as they ignited on his. He leaned down again to cover her jaw and neck in more kisses and little love bites, her breathing growing ragged, and she arched her back as he pressed his, now equally bare, body onto hers, desperate to get even closer.

She moaned and leaned her head back as he made his way back down - her breasts, her middle, her tummy; his breath, and lips and teeth; the sweat, the heat, the pressure - but still he refused to slip into her and give her what she craved. Murmuring against his skin, she kissed his cheek and moved to tug on his earlobe with her teeth, perhaps a little harder than she would have had to, and he understood her meaning and pushed himself slowly into her, his eyes never leaving hers.

She whimpered softly, arching her back and rolling her hips, trying to get him to push deeper, but he pulled out slower than he'd gone in and pushed back in - ever so slowly too - making her body shake with ecstasy and her breath catch. Now positively on fire with desire and need and fueled by a feverish eagerness that was melting her core, she tried to tilt her hips again and get him to speed up. But he held them down and kissed her - just as infuriatingly slow as he was moving inside of her. He ran his tongue over her lips and then his own, as if savoring the taste like a gourmet, then buried his face in between her breasts as he pushed in farther and she sucked in little breaths and moaned them out.

“F-faster?” she asked, softly, breathlessly, and finally, he obliged her wish.

And before she knew it they had taken off, taken to the skies together, and she was flying, soaring, the sun and the moon and the stars all bursting behind her closed eyelids as pure pleasure pulsed through her and she felt the warmth of his own pleasure inside of her. He continued the push, deeper and deeper, not pulling out, just pushing himself into her harder, until he was _so close_ and it felt so blissfully _much_ it hurt. She closed her eyes, every cell in her euphoric, tingling body connected directly to his, the sensations and smells, and the sudden burst of disconnected, jumbled images that were flooding her brain, her heart, her soul threatening to overpower her and take her under.

She clutched the sheets in her hands, returning to her sweating, naked body. And they lay, hot and panting, skin shivering in the cool air for a moment, before he pulled her into his arms and she lay with her back against his heaving chest. She felt his breath vibrate hot against her skin, as he whispered into the nape of her neck, whispered words that sounded like he was calling her _his_ \- his Belle in the skies, his beauty, his world, his everything, but that could never be.

She wasn’t _anyone’s_ _anything_ , she was just Lacey.

She should better go back to her own room, Lacey thought. To wake up in her bed instead of his. That would have been the ladylike thing to do. But Lacey was no lady.


	7. Chapter 7

When she woke up, she was wrapped in his soft sheets and strong arms, and there was the smell of his hair, the taste of him in her mouth, the feeling of his skin so warm and flush against hers, that it seemed to have gotten under it and inside of her, into the air all around them, buzzing like a constant, faint electricity. She was hung over, drunk on him and their love-making, the dangers of the long overnight she spent in his bed, kissing and touching, and being touched in return, her deprived skin tingling under his gentle fingers as they had set out to explore, to visit every secluded spot and secret getaway at least twice, as if he were a sculptor wishing to sculpt her replica from marble to keep her with him for all eternity and beyond, or a painter, carefully choosing the right kind of texture for his canvas. 

The sun was peeking through the curtains and into her eyes. Lacey checked the alarm. Not late, but too late all the same. Carefully slipping out of bed, so as not to wake him, she tossed on her underwear and coat, put on her shoes, and turned to leave, but then turned back around to catch one last glimpse at his sleeping form, the covers thrown off his soft skin bathed in warm morning light, and Lacey bit her lip, emotion tugging at her heart, which she chose to push firmly away. She did, however, step closer to the bed again.

The AC was running, humming low and contentedly, and the air in the room pleasant, but cool. Lacey covered him gently with the sheets, feathered a soft kiss onto the stubble on his turned cheek, and, without a sound, left the room.  

======

In the dining room, she was greeted by a sight that made her stomach growl its approval: A long sideboard lined with cold starters. An assortment of juices. Plain yogurt with muesli to sprinkle on top. Fresh fruit, whole or chopped. Round, thin oatcakes, waiting for a skim of raspberry jam. And a selection of cereals, including Weetabix, which looked like granola bars, but were in fact shredded wheat.

Lacey grabbed a bowl, yogurt, fruit and a free table and a waiter brought her a cup of piping hot tea, her teacup flanked by a pot of water - for thinning the tea, should it get too strong - a bowl of sugar lumps, and a pitcher of milk. After the yoghurt, she went and got herself a steaming bowl of porridge. It was proper oatmeal, way smoother than your typical Quaker Oats, and her mouth watered as she added a pat of butter and a splash of milk, then tossed in some golden currants and a generous spoonful of light brown sugar. Oatmeal placed on her table, waiting and beckoning, she fetched crisp wheat toast, butter, orange marmalade and creamy golden honey and a plate of fry up that smelled absolutely divine.

Back at her food-laden table at last, she bogged in with glee, attacking her breakfast with a great enthusiasm, thinking about how full the huge meal was going to make her and how that alone would make for a good, perhaps even perfect, day. With such a tasty start to her morning, she would be good at least until the afternoon or early evening, long in NY by the time she got hungry again, hopefully. She had enough time to finish, pack and change into her uniform and felt happy and eager to continue her trip.

The only thorn in her side was that she would not see him again, but she forbade her stupid, hormonal heart to get hung up on that. That wasn’t her, wasn’t how she lived or wanted to live - and she wouldn’t start changing that now.

======

When she got to the Qantas counter, to talk to a woman she did not know, but who wore the same colors she did - which practically made her family - she was immediately told to come with her and follow her back into the office, into one of the little shoe boxes made from glass with sliding doors that creaked, and had been instructed to sit down on a visitor’s chair in front of a plain desk and told to wait, _please_.

Being called into the office first thing in the morning, during a stopover and in a base that was not your domicile, to sit and have a talk with some person that was not _your_ dragon, was never anything good. Her mind and heart racing, Lacey racked her brains to come up with a plausible explanation, a possible reason. She had no family of whose tragic deaths in some freak accident she could have been informed, so perhaps her baggage was lost - no, that was hardly the end of the world and happened all the time. Maybe, though, they had found something in her suitcase that should not have been there. Something she’d not put in herself. It happened. She’d heard the stories. Passengers and crew used as unsuspecting carrier pigeons for drug cartels and such. Lacey licked her lips nervously, clasping her hands on her lap.

After what felt like forever, but could not have been more than a matter of minutes, the door behind her opened and Lacey slid out of her seat automatically to greet whoever it was that had requested so urgently to speak with her. _Her personally_. She would not have been led here otherwise.

Lacey held out a warm hand to the tall redhead that had walked in. “Good morning,” she said, smiling and trying her damnedest to make it look natural, relaxed and open. First impressions were important. “I’m Lacey, Lacey French. I was told to come see you?” 

“Good morning,” the woman said. “My name is Zadie Green -” they shook hands- “I’m from Inflight. Thank you for finding the time for meeting me on such short notice. Please, take a seat. I am very confident that we can keep this short and sweet, so both of us can get out of this fishbowl,” She gestured to indicate the cubicle around them and laughed - a fake laugh, a business laugh. They looked the same on the surface, but _felt_ different, the difference always painstakingly obvious to Lacey and telling the two apart coming to her as easy as telling store-bought from home-made at a bake sale. “Us girls have places to be, don’t we?”

The fake smiles and excessive use of same-boat-speech ( _‘We’, ‘us’, let’s do this, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, I am your friend, really._ ) made her stomach clench and writhe with foreboding. This was bad, really, really bad. And she couldn’t stand the redhead, pretty sure that the instant dislike was mutual.

“Miss French,” Greenie began, after they’d sat down. “The reason we're having this conversation today is that your position with Qantas Airlines is no longer available.”  


Lacey didn’t understand. She was --- fired?! For _what_? How? _Why_??

For the next 20 minutes or so, she had sat in the fucking _fishbowl_ , trying and failing to argue her case, but had quickly given it up when she realized that the decision had already been made without her and Greenie was only there to let her down easy and --- _help_. To Lacey, it felt more like she was being _let_ and _helped_ right over a cliff.   

Welcome to the exhilarating world of a flight attendant, where just being beautiful and smart didn't cut it. It may have been tempting for some to think the job was easy, but in reality it took a lot to become cabin crew and to be part of an airline’s family. Oh, and as if the passenger meltdowns, emergency situations, grueling grooming rules and long shifts - all in a day's work - weren’t enough already, if you dared put so much as your small toe out of line - or if someone _said_ you had - you also had to worry about _your family_ stabbing you in the back and twisting the knife. _Oh, what a wonderful, wonderful world_. The airline’s reputation was _everything_ , Lacey knew that. When you became a threat to it, you became a liability to the family and that was that with _Ohana_ and _Kum ba yah_.

Shocked and in disbelief, Lacey felt like crying, but she would not permit herself to do so in front of that horrible woman, who handed her a stupid high-gloss packet - white and green - still smiling, and who probably laughed at funerals.

This _was_ a funeral. Her own.

======

“He was horrible to everybody!” she would complain to Carla at check-in, one melt-down and a hard, long cry in the bathroom later. She wasn’t sad anymore, she was livid, and the whole situation felt --- _unreal_. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?!”

Seething, she sat on the luggage scale, sure the display must have read ‘ _rage_ ’ - pounds and pounds of rage. What an asshole! Getting her fired --- over what?! A _coke can_? A quick, _meaningless_ shag in a hotel room? _Greenie from Inflight_ had, of course, not mentioned any of this, she couldn’t reveal the complainant's identity after all, but it had to be him. Who else hated her guts so much they’d have her fired from a job she loved and left her stranded, stuck on another continent?! The latter wasn’t technically true, Lacey knew, she still had that voucher from the packet to take her back to Sydney on whatever Qantas flight she wished, but _still_.

Perhaps, D49 had been a mole, employed to dig up dirt on cabin crew to give the airline a good excuse to have them fired. Coming to think of it, she was sure that was _exactly_ what had gone down here. That’s why he’d insisted she’d tell him her name and airline ( _which she hadn’t, but what good had that done her?_ ) and then he’d gone and filed that complaint after she had fallen for his trap. Maybe the sick bastard’s job was to target _uncomfortable_ employees to find that little speck of dirt - or bring it about himself - that would tip the scales. And hadn’t there been a green apple on his business card? She should have known something was up then! She stared down at the packet on her lap. It also bore an apple, a different shade of green and smaller in the right bottom corner, but yeah, what were the odds?

“Well, you could fight it of course,” Carla said reasonably, flipping the black part of her black-and-white bob over her shoulder. She was a dragon, almost as high up as Mal and could afford the flamboyant hairstyle without having to fear for her job. Lacey wished she had dyed her hair that crazy red color, like she’d wanted to last month on Bali. “But darling, to be quite frank, I don’t think you actually stand a chance. The kangaroo is determined to let people go right now. The usual. You know how it is in the biz, chicken.” 

Lacey wished someone had told her to watch her step sooner. Now it was too late. The milk hadn’t spilled, it had burned, black and unpalatable, and ruined the pot in the process. “I know I’m not your typical model student, but come on, Carla, I did my job. And a bloody good one too!” Lacey argued, even if it made no difference. There was nothing Carla could have done for her. “Have I thought about spitting on his meal? Yeah, sure I have, but we’ve all been there, right? And I didn’t actually _do_ it!” She sighed. “Might as well have, I suppose.” 

“So sorry, love, I wish there was something more I could do for you,” Carla said sympathetically, patting her head in a very motherly way, which would have rankled her under any other circumstances, but felt just right to Lacey in that very moment. “You know; I don’t care what that paper says. As far as I am concerned, I know nothing and you're still family, which means I can put your pert rear on any plane you want it to be on. --- Bahamas? Bermuda? Hawaii? You name it, pet, you got a jump seat with your name on it going there. --- Or you could always come to London and stay with me for a while. Lots of rain, though. I’m sure it would be a delight to have you, chicken.”

Lacey felt like crying all over again, but didn’t. “They are stupid fuckwits to let you go!” said Carla. Lacey drummed her heels against the scale.

What _would_ she do now? Sydney was her domicile base, but nothing more than that. She had a small flat downtown, with a queen-size mattress on the floor, a mosquito net bed canopy over it, a big bookshelf - holding her beloved books and cup collection - against one wall and a kitchenette in the corner, but that was it. She wasn’t sentimental. It made no sense to carry around deadweight when you lived your life out of a suitcase, but now that she had been beached like a whale, she had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no _other life_ she could return to. She was lost. Lost and utterly miserable.

“Darling, just think about it and let me know, alright? I’ll be here - for the week at least, until my trip ends.”

Lacey nodded, cursing the excitement and loneliness that came with living everywhere and nowhere, and how it had all seemed so alluring to her a few years back for reasons that seemed strange and foreign to her now.  

Finally, on a vengeful whim, fueled by the cooled off rage in her tummy, she had decided to deadhead to Boston a few days later, flying as revenue passenger. And while she was, technically, no longer paid block time, because she no longer was a Qantas crew member, Lacey kept up appearances during the flight and wore her uniform on the plane like nothing had happened and nothing was wrong, silently thinking that she would burn the fugly thing the first chance she got.


	8. Chapter 8

She sat on one of the chairs and looked around. The place was dusty and she was pretending and failing not to be a bundle of raw nerves.

Not wanting to look like a slob, in case he decided to show, but also not wishing to appear too eager - like an overdressed puppy dog, kicked and left sitting outside in the rain, but still wagging its tail at the headlights of every passing car like a total fruit loop - in case that he did not, Lacey had thrown on a short and nearly see-through shirtwaist dress and simple black heels. The dress was a shade of light blue and embroidered with a white horizontal lace pattern on the bodice that was also repeated along the skirt, and the top’s short sleeves, white buttons and convertible collar mimicked a men’s classic button down shirt, but the overall impression was elegant rather than tomboyish - thanks to a cinched waist attached to above knee-length soft pleats.

She had bunched up her hair and twisted it into a messy bun on top of her head and was now relentlessly twisting and untwisting a loose curl around her finger, as she sat and waited, trying not to wait. If she didn’t wait, she couldn’t be disappointed, and if she didn’t allow herself to be disappointed, she wouldn’t get hurt.

‘ _Meet me at the little French café at midnight - L._ ’

Her note, scribbled in a spur of the moment decision, and striking her as equally dramatic and mysterious at the time, now seemed too vague, stupid and cringe-worthy. Perhaps he hadn’t found it. Or, if he had, he might have thought it a joke or a prank, or perhaps believed that it was meant for someone else. Really, she should have planned this better and at least have addressed it to him properly ( _Dear infuriatingly handsome git_ , ---). What if he hadn't got it? And what if he had, but didn’t _care_?

She was bored --- and _terrified_.

Once upon a time, the little corner café must have been a true beauty. She had immediately noticed the little gem, sitting abandoned and boarded up, passing it on the day she had waltzed into Storybrooke in her uniform and killer heels like a tank, running on anger and despair, her shoulders thrown back, her head held high and bloody murder on her mind.

She’d thought the café would be the _perfect_ spot to meet on neutral turf, even if it meant breaking an entry, but she figured it wasn’t technically a crime, since she was supposed to meet the man it belonged to. The whole town was his. And more than that - even if she had tried to deny it ever since that morning that began in heaven and ended in hell.

Then, he came, and the air around her was immediately filled with the smells she’d come to love: leather, acrylic paint and apples, books and cognac. It was also charged with a strange electricity that made her bristle and the hair on her arms and neck stand on end.

“Good evening,” he said, standing there like he had in the diner and garden, straight as a tree, hands resting on the cane handle of his walking stick.

“Hello,” she replied, a joking ‘ _so we meet again’_ dying on her dry tongue.

“Qantas,” he said simply.

“Yes,” she said.

“Los Angeles -”

“Uh-huh.”

 “That was you.”

“Yes.” Her voice was small and unsteady and she didn’t know what to do with her hands. “The git in D49 with the magic key to vending machines. _You_ ,” she said.

His eyebrows shot up.

“Who slept with me and then pretended he didn’t _know_ me. _For weeks_!” she spat, hurling the words across the floor at his feet, her fiery temper and hurt feelings getting the better of her. “Real _classy_ , Mr Gold.”

“I didn’t know who you were! I didn’t know it was _you_!”

“Oh, so if I had been anyone else, being rude to me would have been _just fine_?!” Suddenly, she was so mad, she was spewin’.

“No, of course not! And may I remind you, Miss, that it was _you_ who nearly knocked _me_ over when we met?!”

“I _apologized_!”

“Yes, and then you took it back and ran!”

“--- because it was you! I was _mad_ at you!”

He blinked at her confusedly. “Why would you have been? I highly doubt a shared hotel bed warrants that level of murderous wrath.”

She swallowed, unbidden tears jumping to her eyes. “I - I thought you’d cost me my job,” she admitted softly, casting her eyes down. “A-nd you didn’t even _recognize_ me! Like, at all. Even though we - we --- _you know_.” She blushed.

“I’ve seen so many faces on my travels, it has made me practically face-blind,” he said calmly, raising his hands in surrender to quell the wave of indignant protest before it would burst from her quivering lips to attempt and drag him down to the bottom of the sea to drown him, his remains never to be found, devoured by fish and soil-dwelling microbes. “Not that that’s a valid excuse, or meant as one. And it’s not to say your face isn’t --- _special_ , you're _beautiful_ , and I mean, I --- wait, you _lost_ your job?”

“Yeah. And I know it wasn’t you. I called my friend at the airline,” she said, her heart slowing from an extended canter to a trot. “Got a pretty good idea _who_ and _why_ now - well a strong suspicion, more like - but anyway, it wasn’t you and I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said, stepping forward to take her hand in his - and her by surprise. “ _I_ am sorry. So truly sorry that I hurt your feelings. It was never my intention; you have to believe that. And even then ---” he paused, his free hand flying to his chest and pumping over his heart-“you c-came after me. You came _here_.” He looked at her and her heart skipped a beat. And another, and then some more. _Flying pace_ , a two-beat gait for racing. “You flew halfway across the globe to see me, even if only to bite my head off - understandably so, for I _do_ understand that I’ve been behaving like a colossal ass-hat towards you, Miss ---”

“ _Lacey_ , Gold. The name is Lacey,” she corrected gently, her hand twitching in his, but she didn’t pull away and he covered it with his other, warming her cold fingers between his own, the heat radiating into her arm and spreading to her shoulder, neck and face.

“Miss Lacey, I apologize for my bad memory and impolite insensitivity and I do hope that you can eventually find it in your heart to forgive an old fool like myself --- _someday_. I am not the easiest man to --- _befriend_ , let alone anything more than that. Not that I- I am --- _would be_ insinuating, I mean, I wouldn’t _dare_ to _hope_ that --- Miss, hope that you and I, which is to say, _you_ \---” he spluttered, endearingly flustered and blushing just as much as she was, which warmed her heart to him even more, melting its soft caramel core and making her feel all mushy and warm and fuzzy inside.

“Shut up.”

Sugar crystals dancing on her bloodstream, Lacey grinned and charged, cutting him off with a passionate pash that, had he been a cartoon character would have send his hat flying and made his heart-eyes pop. She had approximate knowledge of many things, but was a true expert only at kissing - and, right now, she was hell-bent on kissing the living daylights out of him until they were breathless and the world spun. And so she did. And he kissed her back, which gave her butterflies and made her go weak at the knees.   

Slowly, gradually, the heat and passion between them dissolved into comfortable warmth and he pulled her closer to him, his strong arms wrapped around her tightly in a promise of protection and love, a flaming desperation in his embrace that made her heart stop in her chest as he clutched her to him, and she listened to his heart race and the blood rush through his body and crash against his bones like ocean waves. But she did not feel trapped or constricted, like she so often did when touched or hugged for a long time. He held her like she was something delicate and precious, and she felt safe, free, and wanted in his arms --- She felt --- _home_.

“Stay,” he breathed in a fervent whisper. “Stay with me, Lacey. _Please_.”


	9. Chapter 9

###### Epilogue

She had decided to stay. Even when he sometimes drove her batshit with his pragmatism and stoic calm, which she would answer in equal measure with hatching more of her fabulous - although maybe a _little_ far-fetched - plans and battalions of half-baked ideas that she fed to him slowly and gently, served right off the hot baking tin and covered in pure icing sugar and kisses to coax him into opening his mouth, head and heart to the new and exciting that lay just outside - and within - the confines of the small coastal town that was their home, their domicile base.

They had quiet nights and packed days, took trips and spent lazy days at home - in the gardens or in front of the fireplace - reading to each other from the many books and telling stories of the people they had met and the places they had seen and then discussing those places they’d still wished to explore. _Together_.

They shared everything these days, but Lacey occasionally decided to spare him the details of what cabin crews got up to when in far-flung exotic places. What the eye didn’t see ( _or, well, the ear didn’t hear_ ), the heart didn’t grieve over.

Now safely on the other side of the fence, she had a blast tormenting the dragons during any flights they took, making Rodor blush and stammer, apologizing profusely and tipping generously when they disembarked the aircraft. She didn’t so much get a kick out of pestering the genies in their airborne jumbo-bottles as she adored his flustered little face, which made the innocent shenanigans all the more tempting and so much harder to cut out.

She had convinced him that the library had to be reopened, for how would a respectable community look that provided no easy access to information and learning to all its members? However, Rodor had been taken aback when she announced that she would not be the one running it. It was taken over by volunteers - from the nunnery and the town school - while Lacey only took care of the occasional catering demands if there was to be a larger event held in the beautiful tower - like the state-wide book-club convention ( _which had nearly made her wet her pants from all the laughter she had strained to hold back over the entire ridiculous la-di-da affair that went out with a bang and lots of glitter_ ) or a launch party for a new book or one of the readings of another famous-ish author Lacey had talked into stopping by on his or her tour with her uncomfortable, effective and absolutely disarming ways.

Even though she liked the books and the stories, the small part of her heart that did not already belong to the wonderfully infuriating man in the Pink House on the hill, she poured into the restoration of the little French corner café - which was now hers - only fitting, really, because it already bore her last name and she didn’t even have to have a new sign made for over the door (though she had asked Marco to polish and paint the old and add little windbells to alert her to new arrivals). She enjoyed the painting and furnishing, happy as a possum up a gumtree between her color palettes, textile swatches and plans, and often returned home covered in dust and paint from head to toe, which Rodor commented on with a soft smile and a sigh, hoping in vain that her getting dirt on herself and everywhere else would thankfully come to an end after the grand opening, which, naturally, it did not, and soon he gave it up, kissing her grinning lips regardless.

Madame Martha, however, was an entirely different story. The old, gentle housekeeper reminded her constantly to _please_ , be more careful not to trail sand and mud ( _if she had been working in the gardens_ ) or flour and sprinkles ( _\- the café_ ) all over the house and onto the fine carpets, and had once come charging after her with her cooking spoon in hand and threatened to bend her over her knee to give her what was coming to her for causing her endless grief and all that extra work, what with that pretty head of hers all up in them clouds all the time and the constant woolgathering.

Lacey had ducked her head and stammered a bewildered apology, promising to try and do better, all the while blushing scarlet with embarrassment. And to add insult to injury, Rodor had, of course, chosen that precise moment to be in the hall, had paused on the stairs and listened to the whole thing, and Lacey was sure he would never let her live it down - in this lifetime or the next.

She loved work at the café. She loved the people who came in and the stories they told, though soon it had become the same faces and same stories that drank their coffee from her many mismatched cups that were lining the long shelf on the wall. Everyone was free to choose their favorite cup or mug of the day on coming in and sending her little windbells tinkling from joy.

No two of the cups were exactly the same, just like the guests that drank from them, each of them special and unique and tied to a memory of a place or time or person. They had come from hotels and office buildings, taken from their homes during the many legs and trips she’d been on, the early mornings and long overnights, taken simply because she could, because they were pretty and because she’d wanted to. If she’d liked them enough, they were hers. And then she’d dialed the front desk, and _how could they help her,_ well, she would have said, her voice as sweet as fairy fluff, _she’s sorry to bother them, but it seemed housekeeping had forgot to bring her new coffee cups while cleaning her room and opening the windows to let the sleepless nights and the early call-times out_.

Baking in the kitchens and bustling about the café with her staff, Lacey enjoyed her new job way more than she had the old, and she often mused, selling boxes of _Fortune_ apples over the counter, each and everything baked and apple taking over her cake displays come fall each year, how lucky she was, how fortunate indeed and how truly blessed she felt that fate had decided to throw them together in a small and smelly LA hotel and her off the tracks, forcing her to start fresh and to start living the life she truly wanted with the person she loved most in the world.

Humming to herself, Lacey entered Granny’s diner one unusually warm morning in late October, her head filled with thoughts of her schedule for the day ahead which were fighting the infamous stir fry over her undivided attention, and, feeling herself grow uncharacteristically irritated, she stopped dead, rankled by the woman that had snatched up her usual seat at the counter. Had she no manners? Puffing with annoyance, Lacey made to stand next to the stranger to order her usual over the counter and take-away, tapping her feet and fingers impatiently as Ruby hurried to fill her cup and paper bag. People in town knew not to mess with her when she was in a mood, and those she considered her friends knew even more so.

Ruby handed her breakfast to her and she murmured her thanks, half set on leaving the diner to eat at the café, when the door burst open and a young boy - Henry, the Mayor’s kid - rushed inside, addressing the stranger in an urgent voice.

“Sorry, I’m late!” he panted, skidding to a halt behind her and fencing Lacey in between the bar stools.

“Hey kid. What’s the emergency?” The stranger turned around to face Henry.

  


_Lacey_ \---  
dropped her bag.


End file.
